Cheers Darlin'
by Mindy35
Summary: Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry. An AU in which Olivia is the one in a long-term relationship. This story is continued in "9 Crimes" and then in "My Favorite Faded Fantasy", the second and third installments in my Rice Trilogy.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: M, much adult stuff

Disclaimer: Characters are property of NBC, Dick Wolf et al. Lyrics are by Damien Rice and are used without permission. No infringement intended/moolah made.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: AU in which Olivia is the one in a long-term relationship. Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry.

A/N: If you really wanna up the angst on this one, listen to Damien Rice's songs "Cheers Darlin'" and "Prague" upon which this story is based.

A/N2: For Jerry, with much love xxx

* * *

 **i.**

 _Cheers darlin',  
Here's to you and your lover boy  
Cheers darlin',  
I got years to wait around for you  
Cheers darlin',  
I've got your wedding bells in my ear  
Cheers darlin',  
You give me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away…_

For as long as he's known Olivia Benson, she's been married. Or as good as married. She's got a ring on her finger, a man in her bed and three children all bearing his last name.

Elliot can't fault Graham, even if he'd like to. Olivia's significant other is handsome, successful, altruistic and endlessly understanding when it comes to the demands of her job. He's understanding when it comes to the late-night calls and long absences. He's understanding when it comes to her disturbed sleep and pathological reticence. He even understands the necessity of the protracted periods of time spent with her long-time partner.

If the situation were reversed, Elliot isn't sure he'd be as understanding. He'd hate his wife spending all those long, late hours with another man. He'd hate seeing her suffer, watching her soul get stripped further away every day. He'd want to save her, he'd want to protect her. He'd want—. If Olivia was his wife, he'd want…a lot of things. But his wife is not Olivia. His wife is not anybody. So he has little choice in the matter.

As her partner, he'll happily gobble up her time. He'll expect her support, hope for her friendship, strive to be worthy of her trust. Beyond that, he holds no expectations. It's how he conducts all his relationships with women – without expectation. Without expectation of commitment, love, like or even a future. In the present is where he prefers his endless string of meaningless affairs to occur, his profession always providing the perfect excuse or escape.

His women don't mind. Mostly. To them, he represents an ideal – a rescuer figure, an all-American hero, a modern-day gunslinger. He'll play that role for a short time, let them get their thrills from his solid physique and forbidding attitude. He's even been known to whip out his badge in the bedroom. His cuffs make regular appearances. The control he lacks in his real life never eludes him in his fantasy life. In fact, the short but potent burst of power he reaps from this illusory existence keeps him from fixating on all he lacks in reality. For a little while, at least. Of course, his sexual partners don't know this about him. They don't know anything about him, which is exactly the way he likes it. He gets an unadulterated thrill from being worshiped but not known. Only one woman in the world actually knows who he is. All the rest are never allowed deep enough into his life to learn the obvious truth lurking at his core.

Because the truth is he's in love with his partner and has been for years. He loves a woman he can't have. A woman who sits across from him every day with a ring on her finger telling the world she's taken. The photos on her desk advertise the fact that a much happier and more important life awaits her beyond their squadroom's grim, damp walls. And when she dons her coat and shoulders her bag at the end of each day, she goes home to those grinning twin boys and a baby girl with her dark eyes. All of whom Elliot watched grow in her belly.

 **-x-**

He can recall the announcement of both pregnancies, one occurring just months into their partnership and the other more recently. He was present for the arguments with Cragen about what her duties could be, couldn't be, should be or shouldn't be. He was there for Munch's preposterous name suggestions and Tutuola's rapping lullabies which did little more than make Olivia laugh until she needed to pee. He was there for the food cravings and the mood swings and the sore feet and the cramps in her lower back that needed all the strength in his arms to ease. He was even there, during her last pregnancy, when her water broke a month early.

Elliot drove her to the hospital, told her repeatedly to breathe. He held her hand through the contractions until Graham arrived to take over. The second he entered the room, Olivia's hand released Elliot's and reached for the other man's. Graham winced when the ring on her finger bit into his flesh. So he slipped it off, leaving it on the table by the bed. Elliot looked down at the hand she'd held, running a thumb over the indent her ring had made in his flesh. Taking a step back, he nearly tripped over one of her boys. He'd never been able to tell the twins apart. The two steady sets of eyes never failed to make him feel uncomfortable. And the way the two mini-Grahams finished each other's sentences just plain creeped him out.

Outside of his work, Elliot was not much of a kid-person. He'd never really seen the appeal of having his own. That unflinching brand of honesty that all kids possessed made him edgy. It made him fear he was about to be found out – the side-effect of a guilty conscience. Not that he was a naturally dishonest man, just a habitually dishonest one. Sidling around him, Olivia's twins stood by their mother's bed, dividing their questions about the new baby into two neat halves. Graham re-abandoned Olivia's hand, ushering the boys into a quiet corner. As Elliot slipped out the door, he saw his partner's head snap back into the pillow, her eyes squeeze shut and her teeth clench around a low, guttural groan he'd only heard once before.

She'd been knifed in the belly at a bus terminal two years prior. He hadn't gotten to her in time. He couldn't stop it happening, couldn't even stop her slow decent to the filthy concrete. He really thought he was going to lose her that day. He really thought her death was going to be his fault. He rode with her in the ambulance, his bloody fingers resting on her clammy forehead. He called Graham from the hospital, her blood still stuck under his fingernails. One of the twins answered their home phone, he had no idea which one. When Graham showed up at the hospital, he wasn't even angry. Which only proved he was a much better man than Elliot could ever hope to be. He would've beaten the shit out of himself. If his wife was stabbed on another man's watch, he'd have been furious. He'd have gone ballistic. He'd have throttled the idiot, demanded what the hell he thought he was doing and told him to stay the hell away from her in future. He'd have insisted his wife get another partner, one who'd do his fucking job. Graham did none of those things. He just sat with Elliot in the waiting room, entertaining their young boys until the surgeon came out to tell them that Olivia was out of danger.

Her family went in to see her first, the twins asking tandem questions about mommy. She was barely conscious by the time Elliot was allowed in. The room was dark and she was all wrapped up in white. White sheets, white bandages, white hospital gown, small white bedside light. Her pale, slick skin made her eyes look sunken and her hair heavy. Elliot said nothing. He didn't apologize. He didn't explain or assure her scarcely hearing ears that it would never happen again. He didn't touch her, locate her pulse in order to assure himself of her survival. He simply marched outside and punched a brick wall. Twice. Once for each hand. He broke two knuckles, walked it off.

Two years later, he slipped out of the birthing suite with that same, pained groan punishing his ears. The nurse – the one who took him for the father when they arrived – guided him to the waiting room and showed him the vending machine that dispensed hot beverages. Elliot endured her attention in silence. He instinctively knew his way around hospitals – it was an unfortunate upshot of his job. He was much more used to the rush and gore of emergency though, not the pastel hush of a maternity ward. He flicked through every magazine they had then leant back in his chair and waited, arms folded and eyes closed. Before finishing her shift, the nurse popped back in and gave him her number. Elliot tucked it into his pocket for later.

He waited the full four hours which, he was told, was a short labor. He waited to hear that Olivia and her baby were both fine. Then he left. He left before being asked to go in and visit either of them. Later he'd find out that she and Graham named their new addition Sophie, after Graham's mother. Olivia's mother, a victim of rape, gave her up for adoption after only eighteen months of motherhood. In a letter to her abandoned child, she explained that she couldn't live with the constant reminder of her assault. Serena died three years later under suspicious circumstances so Olivia never knew her mother. She kept her name though – maybe she _did_ want a reminder. As a girl, she was moved from group home to group home, her tenacious personality ensuring that she never made a strong connection with anyone. Graham's mother was, as a result, the only mother Olivia had ever known.

Personally, Elliot thought Sophie was an unforgiving, snotty bitch. But he couldn't blame his partner for seeking out family, for wanting to create it, draw it close about her. Not with her history. If anyone deserved a happy home life, it was Olivia. Which was not to say her relationship with Graham was without problems. Graham had left once, Olivia more than once. Once, she even kicked him out. Each of these times, she'd neglected to tell her partner what was happening at home. By the time Elliot found out about any one of these disruptions in her relationship, Olivia and Graham had always reconciled. It was after one such rupture that Graham finally, officially proposed. Elliot wasn't sure who'd kicked whom out of the quasi-marriage bed but this time Graham's solution was to buy a ring. Olivia thought about it for a week. Then accepted.

That had been before little Sophie was born. A second pregnancy had been about as planned as the first – or so Elliot gathered. Initially, wedding plans were superseded by baby plans. Then, after the birth, chaos reigned for many months with a sleep-deprived Olivia concentrating on breast-feeding and becoming work-fit. Graham was working from home, wrangling their two boys and playing househusband. Meanwhile, Elliot couldn't help but wonder if their plans to wed were simply postponed or whether the wedding was as good as cancelled. Over a year went by before he got an answer.

 **-x-**

His partner's been back at work three months and everything seemed to be returning to normal. They're sipping their usual Friday night drinks at the end of a long week when Olivia turns to him, casually asking if he'll be her man of honor at the wedding. Elliot sips his drink and swallows. He'd prefer to scoop his own eyeballs out with a spoon. But instead of admitting as much, he clinks his glass with hers and answers:

"You bet." Then, because he's a little drunk, very tired and slightly blindsided by the request, he gives her a wink and adds, "I'm your man."

Olivia shoots him a sideways smile, crunches down on some ice then murmurs, "That means you're buyin'."

Elliot chuckles, slaps a note down on the bar and orders two more of the same. Usually, Olivia would only have one drink with him before heading home to her family. But tonight is different, tonight's an exception. This night is a special occasion.

Because for as long as he's known Olivia Benson, she's been as good as married. She had the man and the kids and the home and everything. Now, his partner is going to be actually married. Legally married. For-keeps married. With the white dress and the heartfelt vows and the death-do-they-part bit and all.

Elliot's head bobs drunkenly as another beer is placed in front of him. This news definitely deserves another drink.

 _ **TBC...**_


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: M, adult stuff

Disclaimer: See chapter one. No infringement intended/moolah made.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry.

A/N: Thank you to the lovely few who reviewed the first chapter of this story despite it being mostly exposition. The price of admission to this story (as with all my stories) is a few words in the box below. Please think of it as an Honesty Box and make your donation on your way out. I consider this a pretty fair exchange of energy. If you do not wish to contribute, you are free to find another story to read (though I think you will be hard-pressed to find an author who wouldn't like their work, time and love acknowledged). Alternatively, you can go to the great effort of creating your own. If you continue to read without "payment" and therefore without my permission, you are essentially pirating my work. I, of course, have no way of preventing this so it is now up to you whether or not you choose to read ethically.

* * *

 **ii.**

 _Cheers darlin',  
Here's to you and your lover man  
Cheers darlin',  
I just hang around and eat from a can  
Cheers darlin',  
I got a ribbon of green on my guitar  
Cheers darlin',  
I got a beauty queen to sit not very far from me…_

At first, his duties as man of honor are pretty limited. They involve buying himself a tux. When he groans in reluctance, Olivia informs him that none of his suits are wedding worthy. Elliot can't argue with her there. She knows every single one of his suits – just like he'd know every single one of hers if he paid as much attention to what she put on her body as he did to what he imagined was going on beneath her clothes. Sometimes he's not so discreet about his appreciation either. But his partner forgives him. Or he assumes she forgives him because they never discuss his trespassing eyes' fascination with her form.

He puts off buying a tux for as long as possible. So long that, one night, when Olivia's dropping him off at his apartment, she abruptly pulls on the handbrake and invites herself upstairs. He's still flicking on the lights and securing his weapon as she's marching into his bedroom and flinging open his closet. She ignores the box of porn on the floor, the magazine on top showing a curvy brunette in a fraction of a police officer's uniform. Intent on her task, Olivia flicks through his pathetic array of suits, sliding each one aside with an assured _nope_. Elliot just stands there, two steps behind her. She's right, of course. All his suits brag of his exploits as a cop. Despite regular dry-cleaning, they hold the grit of the city, its sordid heat and rancid smell. Each one looks sad, limp, hanging in his closet, edges frayed from diving to the ground or dodging bullets or being slept in, worried in, infuriated in.

She stalls when she swipes a jacket to one side and happens upon a blue and white Hawaiian shirt that's a couple of sizes too big for him. Olivia unhooks the hanger, holds up the shirt and turns to him with raised eyebrows. "Are you serious with this thing?"

Elliot snatches the shirt back. "Hey, you don't know what I do on my own time."

"Yeah, I don't _wanna_ know what you do on your own time," she mutters, heading for the bedroom door. "Get a tux!" she adds, calling over her shoulder from the adjacent room.

A few moments later, he hears the door swing shut behind her. Elliot throws his favorite holiday shirt back into the closet. It lands on the floor, next to the box of porn. Next to the brunette with the badge and the boobs and the wicked smirk.

The following weekend, he buys himself a tux to rival even the groom's. He goes to one of those swanky places that men like Graham buy all their suits at. The female assistants fawn over him and offer him more choices than any man needs. He buys the most expensive one, spending more on one suit than he's spent on clothes in his entire life. Combined.

 **-x-**

Four days later, he climbs the squadroom stairs to find Olivia flicking through a magazine while talking on the phone. Elliot hands her her lunch then drops down beside her on the yellow plaid couch. Her shoulder immediately collides with his. The sofa is old and sags in the middle, forcing any two people who sit on it to lean lopsidedly close together. Olivia ends her call pretty quickly, as she usually does when speaking to Graham in his presence. She concludes the conversation with a soft _me too_ which Elliot assumes means that Graham just told her he loves her.

Throwing her phone onto the cushion beside her, Olivia shoots him a smile of thanks then opens her box of salad. She's started watching her weight in anticipation of the wedding. She hasn't told him so, but he's noticed. So he bought her a salad for lunch instead of a sandwich. He didn't get her the fat-free dressing though, as a silent gesture of protest. Because he'd prefer his partner's curves – and her marriage status – to stay just as they are. Elliot takes a bite of his sandwich, washes his mouthful down with soda and watches as she flicks through the magazine. It's full of squeaky-clean models in white dresses, standing beside tall, tuxified men who have way too much hair and way too many teeth. As she flicks, Elliot starts to doubt his choice of tux. Maybe he should have asked her opinion on it before buying. Maybe he should have gone with a bow tie and not a regular tie like he usually wears.

He takes another bite and another gulp of soda.

Olivia continues eating her salad, one hand holding the magazine, a finger inserted to hold her place at a previous point. After several silent minutes, Elliot grazes that finger with one of his and asks:

"You want a second opinion?"

She gives him a lenient smile and shakes her head. "You don't have to."

He shrugs, bites and asks around his mouthful, "Isn't that one of the duties of the bride's right-hand man? I mean…you can't ask the groom, right?"

She looks at him oddly, her smile fading as if he knows something she doesn't.

"Bad luck," he explains in response to her expression.

She nods in comprehension, smiles again in relief. "Okaaay…." Returning to the page her finger has been bookmarking, she props the magazine on her crossed knee, pivoting it closer so that her leg brushes his through their matching black trousers. "In your male opinion then, is this too sexy for a wedding?"

Elliot angles his head as he examines the dress as worn by a too skinny, too young to be married blonde. "On her – no. On you…" he lifts his gaze to hers, pauses deliberately to grin, "no. There's no such thing as too sexy. Not in this male's opinion."

Olivia's brows creep upwards. "Even for a forty-something mom with three kids?"

He wags his head, sucks some mayo off his thumb then continues eating. "Even then."

She considers this statement for a mere moment then tosses the magazine aside. "Ah, what would you know? You're never gonna get hitched."

"Not if I can avoid it."

"You've done a pretty good job of avoiding it so far."

"Comes with practice."

"I'll bet." She pulls her body away from his on the sagging sofa, turning instead to face him, her back leaning against the arm and one leg folded flat on the cushion between them. "But…don't you ever wanna…?"

Her voice tapers off, causing Elliot to glance her way. "What?"

"You know…" She pokes at her salad with her fork. "Come home to someone at the end of a long day? Tell 'em your troubles."

He gives an easy shrug. "I have you for that."

"I see. And what about kids?" She stabs a piece of tomato, mops it round and round in the non-fat-free dressing then pops it in her mouth. "What about passing on those sturdy Stabler genes?"

Elliot opens his mouth, closes it, looks away, then mumbles, "I don't think I'm cut out to be a dad, do you?"

Olivia barely pauses before answering in a simple, honest tone, "Well, yeah, actually. I think you'd be a great dad." She glances up from her salad, adds with a slight smirk, "'Course, first you'd have to find a woman to put up with you."

"You do," he points out, tipping his drink at her.

Her smirk fades but her eyes still glint with humor as she replies in a low voice, "Comes with practice." She closes the lid on her salad, reaches for the can of soda he brought her. "Still if I can then…maybe it's possible…another woman will."

Elliot nods in uncertain agreement. "May-be…"

Olivia pauses before pulling the tab on her drink – he also refused to get her diet soda. "Does that mean I should put you down as a plus one?"

"Uh?"

"For the wedding."

"Oh." He frowns, clears his throat. "Sure. Why not?"

His mind is already jumping ahead to possible past conquests he can call on to accompany him to a wedding. Someone who won't notice or care that he's clearly head-over-heels in love with the bride. But his thoughts and their conversation are interrupted by a shout from below. Their captain's urgent tone causes them both to jump back into action, forgetting all about sandwiches and salads, tuxes and gowns, wedding ceremonies and potential significant others.

 **-x-**

Somehow, their conversation about the dress in the magazine gets him roped into being part of the decision-making committee. More than once, his partner has stressed that he _does_ _not_ have to perform the duties that would be the role of any devoted maid of honor. In fact, she's made a concerted effort to avoid any talk of weddings with him, sensing his aversion to the topic, though hopefully not his reason why. Sophie, however, insists he play his part. Graham's mother calls him at work and relays the details, inviting him to give a masculine perspective on Olivia's top three choices. Elliot gets the distinct impression that she is not accustomed to hearing the word no. If he'd come across the woman in his work, he'd have thought her a feisty and perceptive old bird. Since she's Graham's mother and since she always seems to eye him with an air of suspicion, he considers her a nosy old bat who's making his hellish life more hellish than it needs to be.

He goes along though – he doesn't have much of a choice. And he figures it can't take long to try on three dresses. The wild inaccuracy of this assumption only proves how little time he spends in the company of women. He stands at the back of the room the whole time, trying not to touch anything for fear of leaving stains. The whole place is white. Except for the floor which has plush, light blue carpeting that his shoes sink into when he walks. The sales assistants seem to glide over the plush in their sky-high heels. They weave around ridiculously huge bouquets of flowers, offering champagne or cappuccino or herbal tea with little cakes the size of lego pieces. They're there twenty minutes before anyone even mentions a dress. Elliot tunes out the talk of veils and flowers and accessories and drinks his midget-sized coffee. Sitting on the filigreed sofa, Olivia shoots him a sympathetic look.

Eventually, she retreats down a little corridor, emerging an interminable time later in a white gown. It's nice. It looks like all the other dresses to him. The ones from her magazine. The ones in the television commercials that he's suddenly started paying attention to. It's white. Lacy. Long. It does nice things for his partner's figure and exposes a decent amount of cleavage. When Olivia, Sophie and the two assistants turn to him, he gives a shrug and a nod. Three expectant faces fall. Olivia's just smiles. She bows her head, picks up her voluminous white skirt and walks towards the dressing room at her usual, efficient pace.

The second one is different. It looks more like a negligee than a gown to him. It's sleek and silky and figure-hugging and when Olivia turns around, thin little straps fall from the nape of her neck down her exposed back. Elliot stands to attention, his mouth going dry and his eyes forgetting to blink. He asks a passing girl for another coffee/tea/champagne/anything wet. He hopes the girl works there, though he's not actually sure. Olivia faces herself in a floor-length mirror, both hands smoothing over the material clinging to her hips. He can't believe she'd actually consider wearing such a thing in public. It's indecent. Or at least, it does indecent things to his brain, to his anatomy. So possibly the problem is with him, not with the dress. A tray passes by him. He takes a miniature champagne glass off it, downs the thing like a shot. The four faces turn to him. Someone asks a question. Elliot shakes his head.

The third time, Olivia is in the dressing room for a ridiculous amount of time. He literally has no clue what they're doing back there. He glances at his watch. The classical music playing in the background is starting to get on his nerves. The younger sales assistant keeps Sophie occupied though, which is a minor blessing. He tries not to hear her talking about the ceremony and about how cute the twins look in their mini tuxes and about how Graham and Olivia met that magical day at the fish market. At least he's not the one sitting on the sofa with her, feigning interest. At least Graham's mother is not turning her suspicious, perceptive gaze on him and seeing things he knows he's not good at hiding. It's about the only thing he can find to be grateful for in that moment.

The final dress is the one. Obviously – and by a mile. He doesn't know why anyone even considered the other two. Because the final dress is Olivia, through and through. Elegant but earthy. Simple but stunning. Classy, confident and sexy. It clings to her body from breast to hip to ankle, leaving her shoulders and arms completely bare. He's never been allowed to see so much of her flesh before. He never knew about the freckles on her shoulder blades or the exact hue of the skin on her back. It's a painfully pleasant shock to his system. Elliot runs a hand over his mouth, looks down at the plushy carpeting beneath his unshined shoes. When he looks up again, four pairs of eyes are on him.

His eyes meet Olivia's. His mouth lifts in one corner.

"Yeah?" she murmurs.

"Yeah," he replies, although the word gets stuck in his throat and doesn't emerge as anything more than a croak.

For a moment, the other three sets of eyes ping-pong between his partner's face and his own. Sophie breaks the hush with a loud exclamation of delight. Olivia is turned to the mirror, measured and admired and pricked with pins. After several minutes in which Elliot wonders whether his duty is done and he can now go get drunk, Olivia complains that she can't breathe so the zipper at the back of her dress is lowered. It's too much for his heart to take. Too much for his eyes to absorb or for his brain to resist. All that skin. All that Olivia. All that honey-brown smoothness, only interrupted by the ridges of her spine. That sweet smattering of freckles. The tone and softness of her, the beautiful, bare vulnerability of her. All visible through the open back of the dress.

He fakes a call and gets the hell out of there, grabbing another champagne as he goes out the door. He can't get to his apartment fast enough, can't get enough distance between him and what he's just witnessed. He slams the door behind him, heads straight for the fridge. Beer will have to do as he hasn't got anything harder. He uncaps a bottle, downs half as he heads for the shower. He strips off, takes the beer in with him, puts it on the tiny little soap shelf. He jiggles the taps the way only he knows how, makes the temperature nice and warm. He drinks the last of the beer. Then he soaps up, closes his eyes and lets his hand drift lower.

He doesn't need porn this time. He doesn't need the special edition with all those sexpots dressed in uniforms, glowering at perps or perched on overflowing desktops. He doesn't need to think of his past lovers, of his illicit misuse of his badge and cuffs. All he needs is the memory of her skin. Just her shoulders. Her arms. Her hands. The back of her neck. The riffs of her hair. Her spine, shoulder blades. The dip of her back. The shadow of her ribs. The cinch of her waist. He doesn't even need to imagine touching her, sliding his hands inside the dress. He can't anyway. But the sight of her, the memory of her. The reality of her naked skin existing in such proximity to him instantly has him panting her name into the hiss of the shower. He leans his hand against the tile, his head against his hand. And after an embarrassingly short interval, his other hand limply twists the tap to cold.

When he gets out of the shower, a text message from Olivia waits for him. She thanks him for his presence and input at the bridal shop. Then tells him she'll see him Monday. Elliot doesn't answer. He just throws his phone on the bed and heads to the fridge for another beer.

 _ **TBC...**_


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: M, more adult stuff

Disclaimer: Characters are property of NBC, Dick Wolf etc. Lyrics are by Damien Rice and are used without permission. No infringement intended/moolah made.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: AU in which Olivia is the one in a long-term relationship. Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry.

A/N: To the specials who so generously made their donation in the Honesty Box - I salute you. You are making the online world a better place. To silent followers and lurkers - no salute for you!

* * *

 **iii.**

 _I die when you mention his name  
And I lied, I should have kissed you  
When we were running in the rain…_

 _And I die when he comes around to take you home  
I'm too shy, I should have kissed you  
When we were alone…_

Olivia works right up until the weekend of the wedding. Elliot keeps praying for a case that will take them out of town or that will pull her down that deep, dark rabbit hole they're both so familiar with. Something that will require their unstinting and undivided attention. Something that will have them working round the clock, through the night. Something that will mean he gets to sleep beside her and not the other man in her life. Anything that will let him look on her face for a few more hours knowing it's the face of an unmarried woman.

He doesn't know who he's kidding. Olivia is the most devoted spouse and mother he's ever met in his life. Nothing New York City could throw at them is going to change that. And just like the unpredictable bitch that she is, New York refuses to answer his prayer with one of her routine tragedies. For once, her Friday night is still and slow and wet and quiet. So quiet that, during the last hour of their shift, he loses track of Olivia. He figures she's in the bathroom or the records room. Maybe she's in with Cragen receiving the appropriate well-wishes. Or maybe some women have stopped her in the corridor to titter over her upcoming nuptials.

Elliot sits at his desk and continues the paperwork he and his partner have been catching up on for the past few hours. The rain hits the window at a steady, soothing pace. The overworked phones revel in a rare respite while the coffee percolates placidly in its carafe. The lone perp in holding happily sleeps of her hangover, snoring under a police-issue windbreaker. Elliot takes the pen out of his mouth and looks around. Then, scooting back in his chair, he grabs his coat and heads out of the squadroom. He suddenly has a feeling he knows where she is.

He's right. She's on the roof, coat hugged about her and cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She doesn't smoke often. In fact, she doesn't really smoke at all. Occasionally, she'll just light up a cigarette and let the tip burn down to a stub. It's like a meditation for her. And, he suspects, a nostalgic remnant of her misspent youth. Once or twice, his partner has hinted at a wild child phase she went through in her adolescent years. She wanted out of foster care and did everything she could to make herself an undesirable charge. This included smoking, drinking, partying and promiscuity – from what Elliot could glean, at least. He'd like to know what made her clean up her act and decide to be a cop. But she's never shared that with him and he's never outright asked. Like much of their relationship, her turbulent history remained mere subtext.

When he steps through the door, Olivia smiles mildly, unsurprised by his appearance. He closes the door behind him, leans back against it and shuffles in close so they can share the shelter the little ledge over the doorway offers. She lifts the cigarette from her side and extends it toward him. Elliot slides two fingers over hers, takes the cigarette, lifts it to his mouth. The smell reminds him of his mother, even though she gave up smoking shortly after she gave up his father.

Looking back, his childhood can be divided into two distinct halves. The period in which his family home was filled with smoke and tension, violence and instability. And the period after his mother left his abusive father, taking her three kids with her. Bernie kicked her cigarette habit, got treatment for her bipolar disorder and raised him and his siblings as a single parent by teaching community college art classes. She still had the occasional smoke, sitting up alone in her bed at night. Particularly after his father remarried and relocated to another state, barely ever to be heard from again.

Elliot takes a long drag of the cigarette and stares out into the falling rain. He blows the smoke into the downpour but doesn't hand the cigarette back. He wants one more drag. Not to remind him of his mother. More because Olivia's lips have left a faint crimson imprint at the base of the cigarette. He wants to place his mouth over it. He wants to taste her lipstick. He wants to know exactly what her mouth tastes like at this very second. He looks down at the cigarette in his hand then sideways at his partner.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tone light, voice quiet.

Olivia nods vaguely but doesn't glance his way. "Yeah…"

"Everything set?" he adds a moment later, after taking another drag. "For the wedding?"

"Can we talk about something else?" she sighs, hand brushing his as he offers her the cigarette. " _Anything_ …else…"

He doesn't reply. He just falls silent, turning his gaze back onto the rain as it splatters the concrete roof clean. It's been raining so long now that mist has moved into the city and they can barely see beyond the adjacent buildings. Olivia draws on the cigarette, puffs out the smoke without inhaling. Then she turns her face to look at him, breaching her own request by asking:

"Got your tux?"

Elliot ducks his chin, edges the tips of his shoes back in under the shelter. "Yep." He takes a beat then adds in a wry mumble, "Don't know what the big deal is..."

Her gaze runs over his profile. "What d'you mean?"

He shrugs and shoots her a half-smile. "The lady…made me try on, like, seven of 'em. That's more suits than I own. I mean, what's the difference?"

"Oh, there's a difference," she muses, flicking the ash off the end of the cigarette. "The right tux on a man can make a woman weak at the knees."

"Well, in that case, it was totally worth it," he mutters, causing her to laugh softly.

He wants to press his luck, talk more about the wedding. Or rather, there's a conversation he wants to have with her before she puts on that white dress and veil. He's not sure he can actually have it, actually say things out loud to her that he's concealed for so long. But he's making his way towards it. He's opening the topic, cautiously unlatching the clasp on his heart. He's hoping that some brave brand of inspiration will strike the moment he opens his mouth to speak. But before it can, before any of that can eventuate, Olivia's phone pings in her pocket. She throws their cigarette to the ground, out into the rain. It's saturated within a second, its insignificant little flame extinguished.

Glancing at the phone, she tells him it's five o'clock. Graham is downstairs, waiting to take her home. Their time's up. Before they head back down, Olivia leans out into the rain, eyes closed and mouth open. She takes a swig of rainwater, swallows it then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

In the squadroom below, Graham is chatting to a female uni. He hands over a card, telling her that if she ever comes across anyone in need of a good pro bono lawyer, she can contact him anytime. The young uni scuttles away as the two of them enter. Graham turns, smiling widely, taking Olivia's shoulders in both hands and kissing her mouth. He makes a face, licks his lips distastefully when he detects the smoke on her breath. He doesn't say anything. He just brushes the raindrops off her shoulders and asks if she's ready to go. Graham chatters amicably about the wedding as Olivia gathers her things. Elliot nods but can't take his eyes off his partner. She takes a few more items with her than she would on a normal Friday, highlighting the fact that she will not be returning until after her honeymoon. When she straightens, her eyes connect with his across their adjoining desks.

"Ready?" Graham asks.

"Yeah..." Her eyes drop from her partner's to the floor then lift to her prospective husband's.

He takes a bundle of files from her arms, laughingly commenting that he hopes they will not be joining them on their honeymoon. He slings his free arm around her shoulders as they head out. Olivia glances behind her, over the encircling arm, murmurs _see you tomorrow_ , just like she normally does. Elliot can't reciprocate. Because this tomorrow is different. This tomorrow is the day the woman he loves devotes herself to another man for life. His mouth opens just slightly as she walks away. Because there are still things he wants to say. Important things. True things. Things that span years of nights and days, years of intimacy and danger and faith and affection and devotion. He had no idea how much hope he'd been holding out. And suddenly, it's all too late. Suddenly – right when he'd given up on her – New York delivers an everyday tragedy that's delicate enough to suit a misty Friday evening.

 **-x-**

He takes a woman called Laurel to Olivia's wedding. She's a beauty queen turned catalogue model who he's seen a couple of times before. Of course, he's much more used to seeing her naked in his bed than fully clothed in a church. His partner's not really religious so he assumes the church was the groom's idea. Or his mother's. Laurel wears a white dress to the ceremony, which he's pretty sure is bad form on her part. Not only has she co-opted the bride's prerogative, the thing is Marilyn Monroe-like in design. With the plunging neckline and the billowy skirt and everything. Her curly blonde hair is piled on top her head, a few platinum tendrils dripping down her bare back. Her blue eyes gaze up at him as he stands beside Olivia at the altar. One of them winks as he concentrates on ignoring the words falling from his partner's lips, from her man's and from the priest's.

When it comes to the opposite sex, Elliot's never really had a type. He generally prefers brunettes. But he deliberately chose to bring a blonde to the wedding. He didn't want anything about his date to remind him of what he was losing. What he was losing despite never having possessed anything.

At the reception, Laurel's hand rests on his knee. He takes it in his. It's small and soft with a sweet-smelling scent that transfers to his skin. Her nails are long, well-maintained and painted a delicate pink. Her hand is nothing like Olivia's, nothing like either of her hands. The hands that pass him files and bring him coffee and slam her drawers when she's upset. The hands that snap on latex gloves and investigate lifeless, hemorrhaging flesh. The hands that touch his shoulder to rouse him from a snatched snooze. The hands that stem the bleeding if anything breaches his skin, that catch him when he's about to fall. The hands that reach for her weapon and flash her badge and drive their sedan and long to comfort the vulnerable but are so often rebuffed.

Those hands are currently preoccupied. One rests in her husband's. The other, the one wearing her rings, encircles a glass of bubbly, golden liquid. She lifts it as the best man concludes his toast. Numerous glasses clink. People murmur and chuckle in warm agreement. Olivia's name is chanted in conjunction with her husband's. Then the glass lifts to her lips. Elliot watches it, watches her take a sip. Watches her lips part and the fizzing liquid slip between them. Her eyes turn his way but skim past him, landing instead on Cragen. In the absence of a father, he delivers the father of the bride's toast. He is warm, congratulatory and blessedly brief. After which, it is the groom's turn. Like much of the ceremony and reception, Elliot doesn't listen to a word he says.

He is not required to speak, thankfully. He's just required to sit at the bridal table and look thrilled for the happy couple. He's not sure how good a job he does. He's never been great at dishonesty – not of the socially ubiquitous variety anyway. Give him an undercover mission or a suspect to trick into a confession and he's as cagey as they come. But the wedding of his best friend to her long-time love is testing his much-honed skills of subterfuge. So as soon as the music strikes up and dancing starts, Elliot pulls on Laurel's hand, leading her out of the massive marquee and across the pristine lawn.

She giggles as he drags her into a nearby gazebo, conveniently cosseted by reams of weeping wisteria. Elliot can hear Olivia laughing as he pushes his date against the lattice and attacks her neck with his teeth. He turns her round, kisses and sucks and licks down her naked back. Laurel's hands clutch the white lattice and her mouth gasps into the tangled wisteria. He can hear his partner's voice as he snakes a hand between their bodies, lifting Laurel's skirt and undoing his zipper. He peers through the lattice and vines at her as he rubs himself against his date's dampening panties. She's dancing with her husband. Her _husband_. Her hand is resting on his jacket. On _his shoulder_. On her _husband's_ shoulder. His hand – lucky, fucking bastard to have got to her before he could – rests on her waist. On her waist in that white dress. That dress that's so very Olivia and so very, very not. Her hair is up but she's dispensed with her veil, leaving her neck, shoulders and back bare. As bare as they were in that bridal shop when the assistant lowered the zip. Three long seconds of memory he's been replaying in his mind ever since. Elliot slips a hand between Laurel's thighs and pulls her underwear to one side. His eyes don't close as he pushes inside her. His eyes stay fixed on the woman he can't have, the woman he's never been able to have, the woman he never even got a chance to have. The woman who will always and forever be just his friend, just his colleague, just his partner.

He and Laurel fuck, hard and fast. She comes by rubbing her clitoris as he thrusts inside her. He comes, but he barely notices. Afterwards, she frowns because she broke one of her pink nails on the wooden lattice. He throws his ridiculously expensive jacket over one arm and they return to the reception where Laurel wolfs down her fish meal and then his chicken meal. Elliot can't eat. Or dance. Or smile. Or drink. The pretense is wearing thin and not even alcohol is doing for his broken heart what it ought to, what it has done in the past.

No one's paying attention to him though. All eyes are focused on the glowing couple in the middle of the dance floor. Guests kiss them and hug them and congratulate them and laugh with them. Their kids run in circles around their feet, little Sophie modelling her mother's veil. Music plays and lights twinkle and flowers do not dare to drop their petals. Outside the elaborately decorated tent, afternoon begins to turn to dusk.

 **-x-**

He ditches Laurel towards the end of the evening and goes in search of Olivia. He's barely seen her all day and doubts he's been a very good man of honor. Luckily, very few men before him have set a standard for the role. Elliot loosens his tie as he makes his way across the darkened lawn. Passing the gazebo, he spots three young girls giggling over champagne they are probably too young to be consuming. He shoots them a stern look and they toss the champagne out onto the lawn then giggle some more. His fancy shoes tap up the stone steps of the hotel that's hosting the reception. Inside, unlike outside, is quiet and still. Elliot takes the stairs up a floor and locates Olivia's suite. He raps softly on the door before entering.

She has changed into a burgundy suit. It's the same color as the suit she was wearing when they met, although this time her jacket is paired with a skirt, not trousers. His partner's legs rarely make an appearance at the precinct. Skirts are not practical for the work they do. On the rare occasions that Olivia has worn a dress undercover or a skirt to court, Elliot has not stopped himself from noting that the woman has two of the most impressive limbs he's ever set eyes on. Long and strong and this is definitely a habit he needs to break. He's known it for years and knows it even more now. He works in Sex Crimes for Chrissakes. He should know better than to ogle and objectify. Love is no excuse. None. Especially now that he's ogling the wife of another man.

His partner smiles as he enters, padding towards him in stockinged feet. She murmurs a soft _hey_ then extends a hand toward him. In it is cupped a thin gold pendant necklace that she wears daily. Her pearls are gone, her hair has been let down. Her wedding gown lies over the foot of the massive hotel bed. She is back to looking like his everyday Liv, not one of the radiant goddesses from the magazines.

"Do you mind?" she says, turning her back to him and lifting up her hair.

Elliot takes the necklace from her palm, murmuring into her neck, "So, I guess….congratulations are in order."

Her head half-turns as his big hands do battle with the tiny uncooperative clasp. "Thank you for being here. I know it's…"

His heart stutters as she stalls, selecting her words with care.

"…not your scene," she finishes and his heart resumes its normal beat.

He'd like to say that he'd do anything, go anywhere for her. But honesty of that variety is not their style. It might be true – as a lot of things they don't say might be true. But they have a more understated understanding, one that occurs without clunky and inaccurate words. She turns and faces him, necklace back in place, and he'd like to say something slick about kissing the bride. Then he'd like to lean in, cup her jaw and do just that. Right on those lips that no longer bare any traces of lipstick. He'd like to. But he's just not that smooth – not when it comes to her. Not when it comes to a woman, a relationship he's actually invested in. Olivia Benson is the most significant relationship of his life and he'd never debase what they have by uttering such a careless cliché.

"I appreciate it," she tells him as she retreats to a little chaise at the end of the bed.

He nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. He's not used to her gratitude. They usually do things for each other without thanks – even saving each other's lives is routinely acknowledged by a mere nod, a simple look. Actual voiced appreciation feels awkward. Particularly since he doesn't feel he's played his role with much honor at all.

Olivia glances up at him as she leans down to slip on her heels. "Laurel seems nice."

He nods again – it just got more awkward – and still doesn't reply. He knows he came to see her for a reason. But for the life of him, he can't think of a single thing to say to her. Possibly because she's Olivia – she's still Olivia, he knows that – but she's changed. She's a wife now. She's Graham's wife. And surely that has to trump being his partner.

She rises from the chaise, walks towards him and deftly switches subjects. "Promise me you'll stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

This is more familiar territory for them, more comfortable than gratitude or congratulations or women he screwed in a gazebo at her wedding because his stupid heart was busting with pain. He smiles in relief and assures her, "I'll do my best."

"God, better than that, I hope." She smiles back at him and grabs one of the lapels of his tux. "Seriously. I wanna come back here in a month and find you still in one piece. With a badge. And all your limbs intact. Consider it my wedding present."

He mock frowns. "I was s'posed to get you a wedding present?"

She's smiling at him and standing close, her fist resting against his chest, grasping his clothes. It's just the two of them and she's wearing the same shade as the day he met her. That first day she smiled at him and said her name and shook his hand and guessed how he took his coffee with just one attempt. He doesn't want the moment to pass because for that one moment he's actually happy. For that one moment, she's kind of his.

Graham opens the door, poking his head in to say, "Olivia. The kids want to say goodbye."

"Be right there," she answers, taking a step back.

Elliot remains rooted in place. He watches her pick up a bag by the chaise but before he can offer to take it for her, Graham has taken it off her hands and disappeared down the stairs.

"Promise," Olivia insists as she strides to the door.

Elliot's smile fades as he follows her. "Promise."

Stopping in the doorway, she turns to him, some sentiment he doesn't quite recognize flitting across her face. It's concern and hesitation and…something else. Something deeper maybe, something more covert. She frowns slightly but doesn't say anything. She just leans up, leans in, quickly kissing his cheek before leaving the suite. She follows her new husband down the staircase and out the entrance of the hotel where he can hear everyone congregating to see the newlyweds off on their honeymoon.

Elliot wanders out of the suite and across the hall to a window that faces the front of the hotel. He moves some palm fronds out of the way, watching from above as Olivia kisses her kids, whispers to each of them then takes Graham's hand and gets in the back of a sleek black car. Her children stand with Sophie, waving and whimpering. Their grandmother comforts them while guests throw rice and flowers over their heads. The shouted well-wishes are muted from where he stands. As is the sound of the tyres grinding against the pebbles as the car eases out of the driveway. Off to one side of the crowd, Elliot spots Cragen standing with Munch and his wife. Cragen glances about, eventually finding him in the upstairs window. His brow creases in sadness and concern.

It's a look Elliot's grown used to and sick of. The only thing worse than having your heart repeatedly broken is knowing that others are seeing each crack occur. He and Cragen both know that Olivia would never intentionally hurt him. They both also know that he handed her the means to wound him years before and he's never been able to retract that power from her hands since. Cragen tried to talk to him about it once. Vaguely, and in a professional context, offering him a transfer or time-out if he wanted it. Munch tried to talk to him about it more than once and was anything but professional. Elliot shrugged off his droll platitudes as brusquely as he'd shrugged off his captain's concern.

He figured that pretty much everyone in the precinct knew. They were police after all, highly skilled, observant detectives. They all knew he loved Olivia. As they all knew Olivia loved him. As a brother, as a best friend. As a trusted and valued ally. On most days, that kind of love from such an extraordinary woman was enough.

Elliot turns and walks away from the window. On this day, it's way, way too little.

 _ **TBC...**_


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: M, adult stuff

Disclaimer: Not mine

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: Please see part one

A/N: I once again urge any romantic-angst-fiends to listen to Damien Rice's songs "Cheers Darlin'" and "Prague" from his album "o". Thanks to all those who fed the box :)

* * *

 **iv.**

 _What am I, darlin'?  
A whisper in your ear?  
A piece of your cake?  
What am I, darlin?  
The boy you can fear?  
Or your biggest mistake?_

The morning after Olivia's wedding, he wakes with a bad taste in his mouth. Laurel, exercising her usual discretion, has already left his bed. Elliot creaks to his feet and rinses himself in the shower, ridding his skin of the scents of sex and desperation. Then he heads out in search of coffee, breakfast and anything that will take his mind off the image of Olivia in that white dress. Off the memory of her voice repeating those vows. Off the realization that he's wasted years of his life adoring and desiring a woman he all along knew he'd never have. He just has to get through one day. Come Monday morning, there will be numerous brands of depravity demanding his attention. But that salvation remains another twenty-two hours in his future.

It's a twisted fact of living in New York City that whatever you plan to avoid will instantly find you. Which is why Elliot's not terribly surprised to run into Olivia's former partner while selecting fruit at a local market. Rebecca Hendrix entered the Academy with Olivia, graduated with her and spent two years as her partner at Manhattan SVU. That was before his time, when he was still stationed in the Bronx. The former partners had reunited a few years prior for an especially horrific case. And though Elliot had instantly liked Rebecca, he also noticed a discernible tension between the two women. When he asked Olivia why they hadn't remained partners, she'd been predictably vague, saying simply that Rebecca had requested another assignment. Privately, Elliot wondered whether he and Rebecca suffered from the same affliction, only she had been smart enough to get out after two years.

Elliot exchanges a few pleasantries with Rebecca – he asks how Missing Persons is treating her, she asks how he's holding up at SVU. They remark on the beautiful weekend weather New York is experiencing and on the freshness of the fruit. There's an invisible person standing between them though and it isn't long before Rebecca tips her head to one side and asks about the wedding. It's done so sensitively that it's almost annoying. Like she knows something significant about him from their short collaboration years before. And there's that familiar look again – that pitying, slightly agonized expression. He's always thought Rebecca was far too sensitive for their line of work. The woman had the earnest air of a camp counselor, not that of a hard-nosed cop.

Elliot looks down, testing the pear in his hand. "I was surprised not to see you there."

"I was invited," Rebecca nods then hesitates, "but I was…working."

He spots the lie a mile off. He doesn't even have to look at her, he can hear it in her voice. Looking up, his head naturally tilts and his brow crumples. He's aware he's giving her the same look he's so often the recipient of.

Rebecca sighs and smiles. But rather than brushing off the empathy behind the look, she comes clean. "Look, I've moved on, I have. But…it still didn't feel right."

Elliot nods then reaches for another pear.

Rebecca's head tips to the other side as she asks, "How about you, Elliot?"

"I…" he chuckles and shrugs. "You know..."

"Yeah. I know." She picks up his abandoned sentence with a quiet voice. "Olivia is an extraordinary woman. I think we both know…how extraordinary."

His jaw clenches but he meets her gaze and, this time, holds it. And the most overwhelming feeling of relief comes over him. He feels not pitied but understood. By someone who knows, who actually _knows_. Elliot opens his mouth to reply, to confess, to spill his guts, to divulge every last libidinous and loving thought he's ever had about his partner. But he's interrupted by a tall redhead who Rebecca introduces as her girlfriend. She's a lawyer named Maureen who reminds Rebecca of their impending brunch date. She and Elliot trade perfunctory hellos then Maureen takes Rebecca's hand and leads her off down the street. Their mismatched bodies – Rebecca's small and strong, Maureen's tall and voluptuous – look incongruous together. Yet they simultaneously exude intimacy, comfortability, belonging. They disappear within a sea of twosomes all heading out to coupley brunches or on determined apartment hunts or to a hip exhibit at MoMA.

Elliot puts down the pears and heads inside the market for coffee. He forgot how everyone pairs up on Sundays and flaunts their seemingly flawless lives. It makes him want to glare them into admitting that their lives aren't that picture perfect. Instead, he just picks up a coffee, some bread and eggs and heads back to his apartment. He's got a few cold cases he can dig into to pass the twenty-one and a half hours until his next shift starts.

 **-x-**

Oh God, this is it. This was the case. The one that did it.

No wonder he hasn't revisited it since.

They'd barely been partnered together two years when they caught it. The most disturbing and heinous case they'd encountered to date. It involved kids – as all the worst ones did. A massive manhunt had been instigated. They'd all been working days, nights, weekends, round the clock. No one had changed their clothes or sat down for more than ten minutes. No one had been home in days. Olivia hadn't seen her kids, Munch hadn't seen his wife. They'd had more contact with the random delivery men who kept bringing food that generally just went cold. Half an hour in the crib was their only respite and it wasn't nearly enough. It never was, but this time, on this case, it was nowhere near enough time to shift those images, those imaginary cries for help. It was taking its toll on everyone. Cragen upped his stoic pep-talks, Munch upped his joke average and everyone else, including Elliot, upped their caffeine intake.

He and Olivia had been on the case the longest. They were the most sleep-deprived, the most on edge, the most jittery from caffeine, desperation and nerves. They'd been getting on each other's last nerve for hours and finally detonated in full view of all their weary, busy colleagues. Their captain had to pull them away from each other, banish them to opposite corners of the squadroom. When the trail went cold later that evening, he told them to go home, get some rest. He and Olivia obeyed, departing without a single word to each other and leaving Munch, Jefferies and Cassidy in charge of the endless, pointless tipline.

Elliot remembered heading back to his scarcely inhabited apartment, taking a shower then calling the lab to find out if there was any news. There wasn't. But they promised to call him when there was. He considered calling his partner but thought better of it. They both needed time to cool off. So he slept. For three straight hours. His phone woke him. It was the lab, with results on the fibers from the stolen van. He swung by to pick them up on his way to Brooklyn, phoning Munch as he drove.

It was after midnight when he reached Olivia's door. But she didn't answer his knock. Elliot cracked the door and called her name, a dim reply emanating from deep within the brownstone. The house was still and chaotic with lights left on in empty rooms and toys littering the hall and stairs. He passed several family photographs as he made his way down the apricot-colored corridor to the kitchen. He found her standing at the counter in a blue robe, her hand wrapped round a stout water glass. Her hair was stringy and wet, her head bowed. She didn't lift it as he entered, didn't acknowledge his quiet, peace-seeking _hey._ He figured she was still pissed at him, which got his back up a bit. She was as responsible for their falling out as he was. He was not the only one sporting a short fuse that day.

Elliot slapped the folder with the fiber analysis on the counter, telling her the results.

Olivia nodded and slowly lifted her glass to her lips.

"Look," he said, clearing his throat and swallowing his pride, "things got a bit…heated today. I was—"

"A dick?" She swallowed the last of her wine then turned her face his way.

Elliot took a step closer, gaze narrowing at her moist, bloodshot eyes. "How many have you had?"

Olivia laughed in his face, a dry, scoffing laugh. "Fuck you."

Elliot watched her reach for the wine bottle and pour herself another drink. The lip of the bottle didn't meet the rim of the glass cleanly, clanking and sliding clumsily. The bottle was dark so he couldn't clearly see how much had been consumed. But he was pretty sure her red eyes were not from sleep deprivation alone.

He took a breath, asked more softly, "Where's Graham?"

She shrugged and sipped. "Not here."

"The kids?"

"Upstairs. Asleep."

"Listen—"

"Wanna drink?"

He shook his head slowly, couldn't keep the judgement from his tone as he said, "We need to be back on duty in less than five hours."

"Such a saint…" she muttered into her glass, slanting him a look as she added, "Except for all those times you're not. Huh, El?"

"Olivia…"

"What?"

She looked at him again with her watery, combative eyes and it dawned on him that it wasn't the first time in their short history that he'd seen her like this. Maybe he'd suspected, maybe it had crossed his mind once or twice that his partner might have a minor problem, that she might occasionally use alcohol as a crutch. But he'd always put it down to a crappy case or the accumulative effects of the job or to something in her wild and sad past. He'd always thought she was in control. He'd always thought it wasn't his business. He'd always thought she'd find the support she needed at home.

He placed a hand over hers on the glass. "You can't work drunk."

She blew some air through her lips. "How would you know?"

His head bobbed in gradual comprehension. "You've been drunk on the job?"

She shook her head, bleary eyes tapering at him like he was stupid. "I've had a few drinks. I'm not _drunk_."

She tried to squirm her hand out from under his, tried to free her glass from his grasp. But Elliot just tightened his grip. " _Stop_."

Olivia leaned closer, shoulder pressing into his chest and eyes flashing at him in anger. "I'm _fine_. I don't need saving. Go save little Ally Peterson, Saint Sta—"

"I need you for that," he murmured, reaching around her for the wine bottle. "And I need you sober." He kept one hand on hers, on her half full glass. His body boxed her in as she faced the kitchen bench. His other hand lifted the nearly empty wine bottle over the sink. "Tell me to pour."

Olivia just laughed. "I'm fucking _fine_ , Elliot."

"Tell me to pour."

"You're overreacting—"

"Tell me to pour, Olivia."

"I've _got it_ under control."

"So tell me to pour."

"God…like you've never had a drink after—"

"Ally needs you."

"Oh, screw you…"

"Your kids need you."

"—Shut up."

"I need you," he told her, voice soft in her ear and hand firm on hers. "And _you_ …don't need this. This stops now. It stops now, Olivia. Hear me?"

Her chest expanded then shuddered with breath, her grip on her glass loosening. "I'm not a _drunk_. I can stop…anytime..."

"So stop now." Elliot inched closer, his chest grazing her back, his arms shadowing hers. "Tell me to pour," he whispered one more time. And then again, in her ear, "Tell me to pour and it's over. I promise. I'm not gonna let you down again. I'm not gonna let you fall."

There was a long silence. Neither he nor she moved.

Olivia dropped her head to her chest and shook it. "I…" Her hand trembled as she released her glass, as her palm slid limply to the edge of the counter.

Elliot flicked the glass away, just like he'd kick a gun away from a shooter. It skittered across the counter, the deep red liquid swishing but not spilling.

She gripped the bench with both hands, breath hitching as she finally whispered a barely audible, "…Pour."

His right hand slid over to re-cover hers and his left upended the bottle. The last of the wine drizzled down the drain. Then he twisted the tap to wash it away. Her back remained to him but he could see her eyes close over, see two tears slip out from under her eyelids and skate straight down her cheeks. Her left hand lifted to her forehead, ran over her wet hair. The other hand, the one on the counter, under his, spread wide, gripping his fingers as they slipped between hers.

"It's over now," he whispered, abandoning the bottle in the sink, "…okay?"

Her breath hitched in her chest again. "Okay."

"You'll go to meetings."

She nodded, lips squeezed shut.

"You'll tell me if it gets bad."

Another nod, another slippery duo of tears.

"It's gonna be okay now."

She let out a breath and nodded. Then she leaned back against him, letting all of her body weight fall on him, letting her head drop back on his shoulder. "I'm sorry…" she sighed, sounding almost like her old self again, "I was…a complete cunt to you today."

He smoothed some damp, dark hair out of her face, behind her ear. "Today you get a free pass."

"Elliot…"

"Don't worry about it."

"You're…not a saint," she said, tone still apologetic.

He chuckled slightly, the sound muted by the weight of her. "Neither are you."

She hummed in exhausted agreement, letting her eyes close over as her head lolled on his shoulder. The throaty hum made his nerve-endings jump with fire and life. And when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her bottom grazed the front of his pants. Elliot gulped and drew his hips away from her. It was the most physical contact they'd ever had and the longest he'd ever gone before touching a woman he was so attracted to. Her body smelled sweet from her shower and her hair was right under his nose, giving off some sort of fresh, fruity fragrance. If she was any other woman he would be nuzzling his nose into that scent, investigating her hair, the nook behind her ear, the silky nape of her neck. But she was not any other woman. She was his partner, his drunk and fragile friend.

He'd honestly thought he was pulling it off. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of doing detached but caring comfort. Until her hips followed his withdrawal, her barely covered ass deliberately pressing into the groove of his groin. It was not just the contact but the fact that Olivia instigated it that stunned and stimulated him. Elliot swallowed a groan but couldn't control his body's instantaneous, instinctive response. His head bowed, his jaw falling and making contact with the side of her head, with her damp, fragrant hair. His mouth was open and panting, mere millimeters from the shell of her ear. His nose nudged at her, its tip sliding along the ridge of her ear. Lightly. Testingly. In the most tentative of ways, so that both of them could still back out, pretend nothing had ever happened. But Olivia sighed. She _sighed_. And extended her neck, offering him flesh and bliss and the greatest opportunity of his entire fucking life.

"You're not a saint," she whispered breathily.

He plunged his nose into that lovely dint behind her ear, inhaled her intoxicating, dueling scents. He nibbled on the tip of her ear, exhaled hard and hot into her neck. "Neither are you," he whispered roughly before taking her earlobe in his mouth and sucking hard.

She moaned and pressed herself more firmly against his rapidly hardening cock. The hands on the counter gripped each other harder. His other hand lifted, pulling the shoulder of her robe to one side. He enveloped her ear in his mouth, trailed his wet, open lips down her neck then pressed a line of rapt kisses long the ridge of her shoulder. His hand gripped her robe as his teeth bit the fleshy apex of her shoulder. And when he opened his eyes, he saw that in shifting her robe, he'd bared one of her breasts. He hadn't meant to skip that far ahead, make a move that was so provocative and irredeemable. But it couldn't be taken back now. Mostly because Olivia was lifting their entwined hands from the counter, placing his palm over her breast. She was soft and full and warm and her nipple peeked through his fingers, growing hard with his touch. Once she was sure he wasn't going to shift his hand, her palm ran up his forearm, grazing the rough hairs and making his skin pimple with pleasure.

Her whole body was pressing back into his in a gentle, rhythmic rock. And with every languid backward movement, he responded by rocking back into her, their bodies swaying slowly in trance-like ecstasy. He squeezed her breast as they swayed, pinched and stroked her nipple, making her back arch. Her ass rolled over his erection and her other breast slipped partway out of her robe. His hand slid across, unmasking it fully, cupping and covering her. His thumb tweaked her nipple and he watched her body react to his uncensored touch. His other hand was already stroking her thigh, bunching up the material of her robe. She whispered his name when he finally dared to slip a hand up around her hip, down between her thighs. Her nipple hardened further at this touch and he ached to turn her around, to taste her breasts, to drag his mouth down her body, to slip his tongue between her folds, to discover just how wet he made her.

But if he did that, any of that, he feared they'd have to stop. If they broke contact for one second, if they looked each other in the eye, reality would intrude. And whatever the hell they were doing didn't belong anywhere near reality. So he kept her close. He kept his mouth on her shoulder and neck. He kept one arm wrapped across her chest, his hand cupping her breast and fingers teasing her nipple. The other was tangled deep in the folds of her robe, seeking the center of her pleasure. Olivia rocked against him, dragged her cheek back over his, breathed against his neck and kissed the underside of his stubbled jaw. When two of his fingers snuck between her lower lips, stroking her wet heat, one hand flew behind her, scraping up the flank of his thigh. Her hand moved unerringly inward, stroking him through his pants then opening them. Then her hand was on him, stroking him, drawing him out of his pants.

She rose onto her toes, hips seeking more contact and neck stretching back so that she could bite his earlobe and whisper, "Fuck me. Please. Please fuck me…"

Elliot kicked her feet apart, ran both hands up the back of her thighs, over the curve of her butt. Olivia's hands moved back to the counter, bracing herself for his entry. She pushed back against him and he lifted her robe to bare her to him. He placed the head of his cock at her opening, pushed a little way in then paused, wrapping his arms around her, gathering her up against his chest and returning his hands to her breasts. Then he shoved himself the rest of the way in. Four slow, firm, pleasurable thrusts and he was all the way inside. And the fit was perfect. Tight and hot and every bit as good as he'd ever imagined. She sighed his name, repeated her plea for him to fuck her and lifted one hand from the counter, weaving it back around his head.

Elliot pulled out, slid back in. And nearly died. It was too fucking good. After two long years. After looking at her across those desks, day and night. After sleeping with her on separate beds in the crib. After pounding the streets and slumping in stale cop cars. After watching her eat and walk and smile and scowl. After wanting with all his might to throttle her earlier that day. And after holding her as she fell apart in his arms that same night. He took a deep breath – forbid the word _love_ from tumbling from his lips, because then he'd really be gone – and pulled out again. They set a slow rhythm, bodies pressed together, hands grasping at each other. Her robe was bunched up and falling open at the front and when he shifted his hands to her hips, her breasts began to sway with each increasingly insistent thrust. She said his name over and over, like it was pushed out of her with her breath, every single time he hit home. Elliot nuzzled her head, her hair, her neck, her ear.

"Olivia…" he breathed as he kissed her temple, cheekbone, jaw.

"…Mommy?"

The other voice was a surprise. And it really didn't enter his awareness until several moments later. He didn't understand its presence or the disruption of their mutually satisfying rhythm. For a few, crucial seconds, his brain couldn't comprehend why Olivia was pulling away. His eyes were still closed, his nose was still full of her scent, his dick was still buried inside her when she shoved him to one side. She yanked herself away from him, pulled her robe about her then scrambled towards her child. Which of the twins it was he didn't know and never did find out. He couldn't tell them apart on the best of days and that was definitely not the best of Elliot's days.

Within seconds, she was gone. Leaving only the smell of tangy shampoo and unconsummated sex in her wake. Elliot turned away, tucking his still hard cock into his pants. Her arousal was all over him, on his penis, on his pubic hair, his hot skin and open pants. Her taste was in his mouth and when he lifted his palms to his face, he could smell the skin of her breasts. Running his hands over his head and around his neck, he muttered a few curses under his breath. He didn't know where she'd gone, couldn't hear a thing. She was probably upstairs, in the twins' room, settling the demonic little interloper with Graham's blond hair and thin eyes.

Elliot lunged at the last few drops of his partner's wine, downing it like a shot. He rinsed the glass in the sink then lingered in the kitchen for a few minutes. He'd lost all concept of time, had no clue how long he'd been waiting or what the appropriate amount of time was to wait to make peace with a colleague after being caught mid-fuck by her young son. Scrubbing his temples with two fingers, Elliot started uncertainly down the apricot hallway. He hesitated at the door, cast a cursory glance at the happy family photos on the wall then left Olivia's silent home.

 **-x-**

Elliot opens the window and climbs out onto the fire escape. Sitting on the rusty step, he sips his beer and releases a sigh. His day's been a complete bust. He made a few calls, re-checked a few statements but ultimately got nowhere with the cold case. He was no closer to catching the killer of Ally Peterson and four other little girls than they'd been years before. His trip down memory lane only served to remind him of what he'd been so desperate to avoid. If he looks back on it now, he's pretty sure his unfinished tryst with his partner occurred during one of her and Graham's many, routine separations. The realization diminishes his guilt slightly but doesn't provide him with any real relief. The only thing that does is the knowledge that Olivia hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since. She regularly attends AA meetings and currently acts as a Sponsor for newer addicts. So he knows he did at least one thing right that night.

Elliot doesn't know how she dealt with it all within her family, with the intruding twin, with her husband who always seemed to return to her. He assumes by Graham's amiable attitude towards him that Olivia never told him what happened between them that night. He doesn't know for sure because they never spoke about it. They returned to the case a few hours later, worked another two days non-stop until Ally Peterson's body was finally found. Their killer had filled his quota for the season and would hibernate for another five years. Cragen ordered them all home and no one had the energy to argue. He and Olivia took three full days off, during which time they did not exchange a word. When they returned to work, there was a short period of unease. But then duty took over, habit reasserted itself. And that unexpected night in her kitchen slipped into the background of their awareness.

Elliot's never brought it up since. He didn't want to embarrass her. He didn't want to embarrass himself by reminding her of how fiercely he wanted her – then and now. He didn't want her telling him she was drunk and regrets it. He didn't want to know if she blamed him for taking advantage. He definitely didn't want to hear that he was the biggest mistake of her life. He wishes he could feel that way, wishes it felt like a mistake, an aberration. But the only thing he regrets more than what did happen that night is all that didn't. Sometimes he thinks about that – imagines everything that might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted.

Pulling out his phone, he glances at the time. Still another twelve hours before he can head into work. Elliot takes a sip of his beer and scrolls through his contacts. He considers calling Rebecca, continuing their conversation from that morning. She's both distant enough and close enough to his life that he can actually imagine uttering the words _love_ and _Olivia_ in the same sentence. He wonders how that would sound. He wonders how it might feel. He wonders if it would help him move on or whether speaking the truth aloud would just make it more tangible, trapping his feet in concrete shoes he'll never be able to lift or move or elude.

In the end, he doesn't call. He drinks his beer on the fire escape, watches a tom cat ferreting through the garbage several floors below. He slumps in front of a football game, cheers for whoever the hell is losing. He goes to bed early, dreaming of another man's wife. And is awakened by a call from his interim partner. Dani skips any greeting, telling him instead to get his ass in gear – they've got a double rape and murder to solve in Morningside Heights.

 _ **TBC...**_


	5. Chapter 5

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Characters are property of NBC, Dick Wolf, etc. Lyrics are Damien Rice's.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry.

A/N: The final chapter of this story will be up tomorrow. But this is actually shaping up to be the first installment in a larger trilogy that will hopefully please those with a sadistic taste for the long, slow burn. Join me, won't you, for further sexual tension and romantic torture? Coming soon to a computer screen near you.

* * *

 **v.**

 _Pack my suit in a bag  
I'm all dressed up for Prague  
I'm all dressed up with you  
All dressed up for him too..._

 _Prepare myself for a war  
Before I even open up my door  
Before I even look out  
I'm pissing all of my bullets about..._

Work – gruesome as it is – is a relief. A familiar partner, the familiar face and rapport, is a relief. He and Dani have worked together before. When Olivia was pregnant with her twins, she got so big she could barely fit behind a desk let alone chase down sexual predators. So while she did a short stint in Computer Crimes, Dani transferred in and took her place at SVU. It was not a gig she found easy. Particularly since she was juggling it with caring for her husband who had been left permanently incapacitated by a shooting. The force did everything they could to help the struggling couple, including throwing Dani some more substantial work whenever she felt able to take it on.

The double rape and murder in Morningside Heights is grisly but uncomplicated. Their doer is a novice – stupid enough to leave semen, prints and plenty of trace evidence. They have an ID within hours, an arrest by lunchtime and a confession before the perp's lawyer can think to open her mouth to object. Elliot leaves Dani with the paperwork and heads out in search of coffee – the real kind, not the cheap, percolated crap that the stationhouse serves up. When he returns, there's a young blonde woman sitting in the complainant's chair beside Olivia's desk. Making an effort to be unobtrusive, Elliot moves to the kitchenette and waits for Dani to join him. After a minute or so, he hears her excuse herself and head toward him.

He turns, hands her her coffee. "We catch?"

"No. Not a vic," Dani replies, lifting the paper cup to her lips and sipping. "She wanted to speak to your partner."

"About?"

"Her husband."

"Olivia's husband?" He shuffles on the spot, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "She knows Graham?"

Dani nods, murmuring, "In the biblical sense."

Elliot draws in a breath, places his coffee on the bench. He eyes the young woman from a few feet away – her long blonde hair, her anxious eyes, the smattering of adolescent acne on her chin. When he speaks again, his voice carries a little more strain than he wants it to. "She even legal?"

"I know, doesn't look it. But yeah." The second he opens his mouth, Dani jumps in, quickly but quietly confirming, "I checked her ID. She might look fifteen but she's twenty. And legal."

"Doesn't make it right…" he mutters, folding his arms across his chest and continuing to glare. "She seem credible?"

Dani bobs her head, "Seemed to me..." then turns to look at him, "but I'm sure you're gonna find that out for yourself."

"Damn right," he humphs, striding across the squadroom floor. He drops down into Olivia's chair, scoots in close then grabs one of the photos by her computer screen and plonks it in front of the blonde girl. "This man," he demands, voice a little too loud and too terse. "You had sex with him?"

The girl nods. "I didn't know he was married. Or engaged or whatever. I thought his wife—"

"Once?" he grunts.

She shakes her head, glances over his shoulder at Dani. "Three times. But then I found out and I broke it off right away—"

"You can go." He rises, the chair careering out from under him as he marches out of the squadroom.

Behind him, he hears Dani apologize for his abruptness, thank the girl for coming in and assure her they'll contact Olivia. Then she follows him out into the corridor where he paces, hands running over his face. For a moment she just watches him, waits for him to speak.

"What're the chances this is a one time only thing?" he mutters, trooping tightly back and forth on the linoleum. "One last fling before the wedding?"

Dani places her hands on her hips, glances at the floor. "In my experience? Low."

Elliot quits pacing, drops his hands to his sides. "We gotta tell her."

She begins to shake her head. "I—"

"Wouldn't you wanna know?" he demands, voice spiking in volume, "If it was your husband?"

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?"

She clears her throat, speaks softly and carefully as she replies, "Marriage is complicated. And you have a vested interest here—"

"Because she's my partner?" He steps closer to her, hands going to his hips and chest puffing outwards. He wants her to say it, wants _someone_ to just _say it_.

Dani's hands drop from her hips but she doesn't pull back from his offensive. "Because you…care for her."

He scoffs at the euphemism, resumes pacing. "If that's true then don't I owe it to her to tell her her husband enjoys screwing barely legal girls behind her back?"

"Is there a problem here?"

Elliot turns at his captain's disapproving tone, feet coming to an abrupt halt.

Dani shoots him a sideways look. "Ah. We—"

But Cragen raises a hand. "Don't even." He tips his head at Elliot. "My office."

Dani glances at him from under her brows then heads back into the squadroom. Elliot clenches his teeth and obeys, trailing his captain into his office. Closing the door, Cragen lets his stern silence sit for a moment before asking whether he's giving Beck a hard time. Elliot shakes his head, impatiently switching subjects.

"I need Olivia's itinerary. I know she left you a copy."

Cragen nods slowly. "She did. For emergencies." He pauses, forehead creasing. "Is this an emergency?"

Elliot gives a definitive nod. "Yes."

Their captain sits behind his desk, spreads his hands. "Please. Elaborate."

Elliot steps up to the desk, eyes on the desktop, not his captain's forbidding face. "I just…need to get in contact with her. It's urgent."

"Elliot…" his voice softens, that rare but recognizable fatherly tone emerging, "she's on her _honeymoon_. She just got _married_."

"I get that—"

"Do you?"

He lets out a frustrated, wordless growl, beginning to case the length of his much smaller cage. He wants to hit something, throw something. Pull down the blinds, smash the windows, sweep everything off every surface he can find. He wants to pull out his gun and point it at the other man until he damn well gives him what he wants. Cragen just eyes him with his police-issue blend of compassion and detachment.

"Talk to her when she gets back."

"Can't…" he mutters under his breath, fists punching into his pockets, "I can't let her stay there. With _him_ …sleep with him, touch him— when…"

Cragen takes a breath, falters. Then very quietly tells him, "She's made her choice, Elliot. She made it a long time ago."

Elliot stops, faces his captain, blinks once. "Yeah. I gotta go—"

Cragen stands. "Elliot—"

But he's already at the door, flinging it open on his way out. "That time you offered? I'm taking it. As of now—"

His captain calls his name one last time. But Elliot is gone. His brain no longer inhabits the building. It's followed his heart on a plane, over seas, across borders, tearing through clouds and storms and numerous time zones. In spirit, he's already there – invading Olivia's European vacation, shamelessly blighting a honeymoon that's scarcely even started. His body's just playing catch-up – desperately searching for some way to re-join his heart and soul. Any way to close the chasm that's never stretched so wide between him and his partner.

 **-x-**

Little Sophie answers the door of the brownstone wearing a blue tutu over yellow pyjama pants. Her flat little chest is bare except for a few blots of paint and swishes of glitter. Olivia's daughter seems to grow bigger and more like her mother every time he sees her. Large dark eyes blink up at him as he stands resolutely on Graham and Olivia's threshold.

"Hello Ellot."

He pauses, smiles. "Hi Sophie. You remember who I am?"

"Yes," she says, tiny toes pointing on the worn wooden floorboards, "you are my mommy's favorite friend."

Elliot nods, squelches any underlying guilt, and asks, "Do you think I could come in and talk to your grandma for a minute?"

Olivia's daughter nods a few times, her wispy brown curls bobbing. "Yes. You are allowed in." She turns and runs down the corridor, stopping midway to hike up her pants when the weight of the tutu drags them down. "Granmaaaaaaaahhhh, soneone's heeeeerrreeeee…."

Elliot follows her down the corridor which is no longer painted apricot. It is now a cool white, adorned with numerous kid-level scuff marks. Several of the photographs remain the same but many have been added or reframed over the years. There's one of Olivia cradling her newborn daughter in the hospital which he's never seen before. She looks tired, happy, beautiful. His eyes snap forward as Sophie Senior pokes her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dirty dish towel. Judging by the warm, tomato-y aroma, he has caught her in the middle of a lavish cook. He apologizes for interrupting, for showing up unannounced. But Graham's mother waves off his apology, smiling in welcome even as a steely glint remains in her eyes. She offers him a coffee but Elliot refuses, saying he cannot stay. Sophie nods and returns to peeling an array of vegetables. Elliot tries not to notice that she is standing in the exact spot where he held Olivia, touched her, kissed her skin, entered her body. He plants his feet wide, clasps his hands behind his back and begins.

He can tell from the outset she's not going to give it up. He knows from what Olivia has said that she and Graham are going to visit France, Italy, Hungary and the Czech Republic. A significant portion of their honeymoon will be spent in Prague as Graham and Sophie have family there. But Elliot does not know the details of where they are staying, in what order they will be visiting these countries or if there are any others on their itinerary. As with the wedding, Olivia avoided relaying the finer details of her honeymoon. Any specifics she did mention, he deliberately tuned out. But now he wishes he hadn't. Maybe if he'd been more attentive, more generous, a more honorable man of honor, she would've left him an itinerary. But he wasn't. So she didn't. And here he is.

Sophie's not going to fill in the blanks though. He can tell. He's sweated enough suspects in the box to know when someone isn't going to talk. And this old woman fully intended to keep her trap shut and him out of her daughter-in-law's life. For the next month, at least. Elliot insists that it's urgent, that Olivia is required in court, that her testimony is vital. Sophie just says that Olivia deserves a break, that this is her and Graham's time. Then she levels a look at him, telling him that SVU – and he – would simply have to do without her. Elliot nods, smiles stiffly and thanks her for her time. Then he starts back down the corridor, passing little Sophie on his way out. She slides down three steps on her butt, looking sad as she says:

"Bye Ellot."

He comes to a stop at the foot of the staircase. "Bye Sophie."

The little girl's eyes land on his shield, clipped to his belt. "Can I hold your badge?"

"Sure." Elliot takes it off and hands it to her.

Sophie's fingers are tiny holding it, one multicolored, glittery finger tracing the ridges and groves of the digits and insignia. "Like mommy's…" she murmurs mournfully. Then, all of a sudden, she thrusts it at him, face scrunching into a mimicked grimace. "En-eye-dee!"

Elliot chuckles and looks impressed. "Wow. Just like mommy."

"Jus' like mommy…" she muses, attempting to attach the badge to her tutu. The thing just falls straight off, bumping softly down the carpet of the stairs. Sophie watches him bend to retrieve it, asking, "Are you going to bring back Mommy form 'Rope?"

Elliot fixes his badge to his belt and doesn't answer.

"I want her," she adds with a pout.

He nods a few times, bops her shoulder with one fist. "You and me both, kid."

She slides down a few more steps on her butt, hikes up her pants and tutu then bolts back into the kitchen to Sophie Senior. "Bye Ellot!"

Elliot watches her go, whispers a soft _bye_ then continues down the corridor. He reaches into his breast pocket as he descends the steps. He's going for his phone, he's about to log another pointless call to Olivia's way out of range cell phone when the thing trills in his hand. He answers on the first ring, hoping to hear his partner's voice. Dani tells him she made a few calls to law firms Graham's worked with, scoping out his reputation.

"Apparently your partner married a real ladies man."

She relays a few rumors about his exploits with young blonde women as Elliot stands on the busy street outside the man's family home. A dump truck lumbers by, the sour smell making him want to wretch. He heads in the opposite direction, unlocks his sedan and falls into the seat with a sigh. Dani concludes her report, hesitates before adding:

"Listen— I have a cousin in Prague. I'm gonna text you his details. He can help you track her down."

Elliot switches his phone to the other ear, starts the car and puts it in gear. "Thanks."

She hesitates a second time. "Sure you wanna do this?"

"Nope," he answers, ending the call, throwing the phone aside and pulling out from the curb all in one swift movement.

 **-x-**

He pulls everything he needs from the wardrobe and stuffs it into his tattered old Air Force tote. He even packs the suit he bought for her wedding. The eager sales assistant told him he would get a lot of wear out of it, that it was versatile enough to suit any occasion. He's gonna test that theory. He's gonna wear that suit when he confronts his partner, when he ruthlessly ruins her life by telling her of her husband's infidelity.

Elliot throws in his passport, wallet and phone then shoulders the bag. He hesitates on his way out, stopping in front of the open, half-empty, trashed closet. Before leaving, he picks up his trusty box of porn and yanks his blue Hawaiian shirt off its hanger. Outside, descending the steps of his apartment building, he lifts both over the solid stone banister, watches them drop to the heap of garbage bins below. The cat that lives there flees with a rattled squeal.

At the foot of the stairs, a yellow cab awaits. He climbs in with his bag, barks his destination to the driver then puts his phone to his ear. The woman on the other end of the line tells him there's plane leaving in under three hours that will get him to Frankfurt where he can immediately change for Prague. Elliot barely hesitates.

He books his flight.

 _ **TBC...**_


	6. Epilogue

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Neither characters nor lyrics are mine.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others

Summary: Check out chapter one

* * *

 **epilogue**

 _Prepare myself for a war  
And I don't know what I'm doing this for  
Trying to let it all go  
But how can I, when you still don't know?_

 _I could wait for you  
Like that hole in your boot, waiting to be fixed  
I could wait for you  
What good would that do but to leave me pricked?_

 _Cheers darlin',  
Here's to you and your lover...darlin'... _

Olivia shoulders her bag and thanks the clerk in French. The little B&B they're staying at just outside of Paris is quirky and parochial. So quirky and parochial that it still has dial-up internet service, free of charge for its few treasured guests. Following the clerk's directions she enters the adjacent room and settles at one of three computer terminals, all boasting the height of 90s technology. The computer slugs to life, dials and connects. She heads straight for her email, waiting patiently as the page loads.

She smiles when she sees an email from home. Graham's mother has attached some pictures of the kids holding their own liberally painted, generously glittered artworks. Frankie, Charlie and Sophie have all contributed messages, no doubt typed by Grandma, telling them to have a fun time and that they are already missed. Olivia wipes away a few tears as she responds, leaving several _ox_ s after the words _love Mom & Dad_.

Running her eyes over the rest of her inbox, she spots an email from the wedding photographer. Clicking on it, she finds several sample images have been attached, all with a discreet watermark in one corner. There is one of her exiting the car in her dress and veil. Her daughter stands by the door in her flower girl dress, her bouquet dangling at her side. There is another of Graham's mother flanked by the twins. Another shows herself and Graham holding hands in front of the priest. The next is of her and her partner, standing against a green hedge after the completion of the ceremony.

Olivia pauses on the image, her hand drifting away from the mouse.

Elliot stands a little behind her, one hand resting lightly on her waist. The photographer positioned them, told Elliot where to place his hand. They would never stand so close in reality – not intentionally, not knowingly. Possibly because the last time they did, the last time Elliot's chest was pressed to her back, the position presented them with the most precarious possibility of their lives. A warm shudder runs down her spine at the memory. But it turns cold when she skips to the next image. It shows three couples smiling at the reception – two of Graham's colleagues with their husbands and Elliot with his date. That same hand is curled around the other woman's body, a little lower and a little more possessively. It sits just below her waist, on the ample curve of her hip.

Olivia averts her eyes, closes the email and logs off the computer. She'll go through the rest of the images and the rest of her mail another time. Picking up her bag, she heads back into the foyer to await her husband. Graham's grabbing a quick shower after his early morning run. He was up and out of their bed before she'd even opened her eyes. Olivia tried to take the opportunity to reclaim some of the many hours of sleep that being a cop and mom had robbed her of. But she found herself restless, sleepless, staring at the molding of the unfamiliar ceiling. The feeling lingers as she paces back and forth in quiet vestibule, unable to sit or stand still. She wants to get going. She's ready to continue their honeymoon so that she can get back to her life, her kids, her job, her partner. The thought of Elliot causes her feet to alter direction, detouring into the darkened bar.

It doesn't look open for business, not yet. But there is an old man behind the counter, replacing one of the barrels. The stench of alcohol creeps into her nostrils from the carpet, curtains, upholstery. It doesn't affect her anymore, not after so many years of sobriety. She can happily sit in a bar with her partner, sipping tonic water while he swigs beer. She can have friends over for dinner, fill their glasses with wine, rinse out the bottles for recycling. She can toast her own nuptials with sparkling apple juice while around her everyone else guzzles champagne. She wouldn't say it's easy. She won't say that she doesn't sometimes crave a sip, the taste, that warm oblivion. But she's too aware of all she'd risk, of all the reasons not to fall, falter and drown.

For a moment though – just a single, solitary moment, all alone in a shabby bar in a foreign country – she considers it. She considers ordering a glass of red wine – a rich Cabernet or full-bodied Merlot. She's in France after all, it probably tastes incredible. She slides up onto one of the ancient leather stools, smiles at the bartender. The bartender smiles back, murmuring gruffly in French.

Olivia takes a breath then orders a fizzy water. Sipping it does nothing to ease her unrest. Graham enters a few minutes later, body bouncing from his run and hair damp from his shower. He kisses her neck, steals the rest of her drink then asks if she's ready to leave for Prague. Olivia nods, picks up her bag and follows her husband out of the bar.

 _END._

* * *

 ** _A/N: Please don't kill me for this cliffhanger ending. As stated yesterday, this story will be continued in the second of three installments. If you wanna speed up the writing process of this story, you know what to do. Thanks to all who made my day by reading and reviewing. M x_**


End file.
